Chapter 07

Author's Notes: O.o ...The Kilt has made its first appearance! And look...Russel can dance, too! ~Lmao, aka Lotm

---

VII.

"...I think you'll enjoy these particular treats," a husky voice murmured near her ear.

Hermione looked up from the array of cream puffs, tortes, tarts, neopolitans, tiramisu cakes, puddings, biscuits, and chocolate-dipped fruits. Somehow Rorik Ferguson had managed to move close to her without her hearing a thing. Close enough that the pleated edge of his kilt brushed the velvet folds of her gown. Enough that the warmth of his body could be felt radiating against her own. Her heart skipped a beat or two, and that warmth spread into her cheeks. "Hello, again...Rorik."

"Hello, again, Her-my-oh-knee," he enunciated carefully, flashing her a grin. Lifting his hand, he showed her a small paper box. "You look like the kind of woman who would rather be tempted by a high-quality chocolate, eh?"

"Dark chocolate?" she asked, feeling her heart skipping again.

"With nuts," he promised. "Brought all the way from...Canada."

She blushed again, and accepted the box. If she'd had any doubts before, this seared them away. The exchange of the box into her hand had been done discreetly, with their bodies angled together obscuring their actions from the rest of the room. "Thank you...Russel."

"You're welcome, Jane." Picking up a tiny cream puff from one of the trays on the buffet table, he popped it into his mouth.

She opened the box, revealing nut-cluster cups in little brown wrapping papers. Keeping her voice low, she asked, "So...who among the other guests enjoy a good...sorry, a bad puzzle?"

"None of them are in view at the moment," he muttered back. "And it's best if you avoided them; they're truly evil hosers that'd as soon high-stick you in the faceguard as tap gloves and play fair. We're just here for a simple little quest, and when it's completed, we'll depart quietly. Be ready to thwart us--would you like to dance?"

"Ah...sure," Hermione replied, thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. Removing one of the nut-clusters from its wrapper, she tucked the box into the pocket hidden in the seam of her dress as he guided her toward the ballroom by a touch of his hand on the small of her back. It wasn't until after she'd placed the chocolate in her mouth that she realized she should've been a bit more wary about accepting candy from a near-stranger. But then the dark chocolate besieged her tongue, melting in rich, bittersweet delicacy and revealing the texture of the toasted almonds it contained. Unable to help the moan that escaped her closed mouth, Hermione found herself swept into his arms.

"Do you waltz, Hermione?"

It was a moot point, since they had already swung into the rhythm of a Venetian Waltz. Replying verbally would've required swallowing all that tastebud-ecstasy before she was good and ready. Hermione settled for nodding her head. It wasn't that the candy was drugged; it was just simply that divine. Russel's grey eyes gleamed with wicked mirth as he watched her rolling the almonds around on her tongue, very much like he was swirling her around the dance-floor.

"...Chocolate got your tongue?"

She almost choked, trying not to laugh. Chewing and swallowing the almonds, she cleared her throat as the waltz came to a close. "It's your own fault, for seducing me with such smashingly good chocolate."

"Seduction?" he enquired, arching a brow. "Hmm, my nefarious plot is succeeding. Tell me," he added as the opening strains of a new piece of music began, "do you know how to tango?"

"It's been a while, but yes. I took dance lessons a few summers ago, so I might be a little rusty," Hermione warned him.

"Good. I hate being the only rusty dancer in a tango." And, shifting his stance just a little, Russel led her in the opening steps of the Latin dance. Hermione followed, guided by his shoulders and hands, by the turning of their bodies. They fumbled a couple steps at first, since it was a bit more complicated than a waltz. Rusty or not, by the refrain, they were moving together with increasing confidence. And increasing closeness.

When the next verse of music ended, Hermione was no longer dancing at a proper-form distance. She was snugged chest-to-chest with him, dancing with relatively simple steps that were being executed with an elegant, crisp passion all the same. The most intense part of their posture was the way he held her gaze with his, his tanned face making his grey eyes seem lighter than she knew the colour had to be. Dancing with him was a lot more exciting than dancing with Ron; the younger wizard made her feel good when she was in his arms, but her heart never pounded quite like this. Nor did her nerves tingle, nor her blood race, nor her breath catch in her lungs as his hips snapped against hers with one of the moves they were executing, imprinting her senses with a quick impression of a distinct and very masculine erection.

A phrase drifted through her mind as he did it again, spinning her around in a more complex, leg-intertwining move than the ones that had come before. A vertical expression of a horizontal desire... Hermione blushed at the realization. She liked being held by Ron, in a comfortable sort of way...but she loved the excitement of being held by Russel. Shameful as it was to admit, even if only to her own self...she preferred being held like this, vertically seduced by a man who was at least twelve to fifteen years her senior, and who was a Death Eater and supposed spy for the Order.

A man who could quite possibly be a liar of the most consummate order. It was part of his excitement, and his appeal to her, Hermione decided reluctantly. Ron just didn't have that same alluring air of mystery. Nor the air of maturity, nor that sexy confidence that spun her out and back, thumping their bodies together in a distinctly vertical expression of that horizontal desire they'd been expressing so far only on paper, not in person.

This was turning out to be very in-person.

"...You realize," he murmured into her ear as they swayed and stepped together during the bridge, "that my colleagues will interrogate me as to what I'm doing dancing with you."

"I don't want to put you into grave danger," Hermione returned equally discreetly.

"I will be telling them that I am attempting a mild seduction to distract you. Tomorrow, we will hopefully locate what we came to seek, and attempt to leave with it. I am simply turning your head with eloquent praise, and distracting your delectable body with the touch and passion of my own--by the way," Russel/Rorik added in an aside, "you are far more fun to dance with than Brian would've been, especially given that I don't dance with wizards, period, never mind aging ones. Instead, I am seducing you subtly and successfully, and by doing so, I will hopefully turn your pretty head and keep you from reacting quickly enough against me, if and when we strike tomorrow. Or perhaps Sunday. I hope you don't take offense at my efficiency."

"Efficiency?" Hermione. "I'd call it practicality, myself."

"Well, it's practical, yes," he agreed, snapping his hips into hers. When she returned with a lust-like bump of her own, he smiled briefly. "But efficient as well, given that I'm honestly interested in flirting with you physically. I do hope that, by being honest about it, you'll be able to keep a clear head on the morrow."

"As clear as can be," Hermione promised calmly, though she felt rather flustered inside. He was flirting with her, as she'd wondered. Interested in flirting with her. Russel was expressing multiple reasons for all those salacious letters, both to disguise his communications activities, and because he wanted to flirt with her. She just had to ask something, though. "You started flirting with me before we'd met in person. How could you know I'd be attractive in person, when we'd never met before?"

"Oh, I'd seen you before our communications," he murmured in her ear, leading her into a somewhat complicated set of steps...and promptly stepping on the toe of her flats. "--Dammit! Sorry. It's been too long since my own lessons."

"Forgiven," she murmured back. "When did you see me?"

"Here and there. Never paid much attention to you, at first. You were just a companion of Harry's. Dismissible. No offence."

"None taken." Hermione was a lot more phlegmatic and practical about being overshadowed by the Boy Who Lived than Ron was. She knew Harry hated his celebrity status, and she knew that she had her own circle of fame where she overshadowed him, academically. And she knew it was better to be forgettable than memorable, where their enemies' attentions were concerned. As it was, she had several strikes against her: she was Muggle-born, undeniably intelligent, magically powerful, and one of Harry's two best friends.

"Good," he murmured, his tone pleased that she hadn't taken offence. A tilt of his head, a tickle of his long, sandy brown hair against the bared skin of her shoulder...and his tongue licked a damp path up the side of her neck to an incredibly sensitive spot just behind the lobe of her ear. Her steps slowed, then faltered as his lips closed on her earlobe, nibbling on the flesh next to the wire hook of her earring.

Thank god the music ended! She wasn't even dancing anymore. It was too distracting, trying to fight off the electricity racing through her nerves, melting her bones. Her boyfriend had tried this exact same maneuver during one of their snogging sessions...and all Hermione had felt was distaste for the saliva, and a ticklish sensation. This wasn't ticklish, or disgusting. It was outright arousing.

She didn't want to--to her shame--but somehow she summoned the strength of will to push him away from her, schooling her face from surprised to disapproving. "That was uncalled-for, Mr. Ferguson! I have a boyfriend for such things, and you aren't him!"

Striding away, she escaped the dance floor as another song began. Her breasts heated. For a moment, she thought it was just a match to her flustered, warm cheeks. But no, it was the ring. She almost ignored it. Ducking outside, Hermione sheltered herself in the shadow of a columnar cedar and extracted the ring, examining it in the light of the half-moon gleaming through the greenhouse-like roof of the atrium. It had only two words written on its scale-altered surface:

Forgive me.

Confusion swirled through her. It settled into two distinct camps. She forgave him. She just couldn't forgive herself. I'm supposed to be dating Ron! I'm supposed to be cleaving to him! Dammit--I'm supposed to be attracted to him! Not drawn to a near-stranger...

Memory swirled up out of the unsettled depths of her thoughts. Hermione recalled a conversation she'd had with her mother just two summers ago, between her fifth and sixth years. She'd complained that Ron Weasley was as thick as a bedpost when it came to her feelings, and bemoaned the fact that she found him attractive, but he didn't seem to see her at all as an attractive girl.

..."There is a world of difference between attractive and attracted, Hermione," her mother had commiserated. "You can find any number of people attractive. Even other women can be attractive. It's a state of appearance, demeanor, carriage, confidence, intelligence...a person is or isn't attractive on their own merits, really. I'm sure he finds you attractive. But attracted is another matter," Daphne Granger had instructed her daughter. "We can to an extent choose who we find attractive, usually by adjusting our own thinking as to what we define as 'attractive'. But attraction in the sense of attracted is something far less controllable. Either you are, or you aren't...and it's not always easy to say why. I myself didn't figure it out until I found a set of twins attractive, but I only found myself attracted to one of them, after dating both. That, as you know, turned out to be your father.

"Jonathan made me happy, when I dated him first. He made me laugh. It felt like being in his presence was putting on a fuzzy slipper, for he was very comfortable to be around. I could have married him and been happy. But Jeffrey was all of that and more. He was exciting--like a fuzzy maribu slipper. Now, I know this analogy is going to be terrible," her mother had cautioned her, "but if he'd been a high-heeled maribu slipper, I'd never have been able to last nearly so long with him as I have. No, your father is more like a slipper with an inch-high heel. Comfortable to wear for extended periods of time, without delving into the sort of pain you find with the type who's a three-inch heel. Don't go for the flashy ones that you're attracted to; find the one man who has substance as well as style. Jeffrey also makes me laugh, just like his brother did, and I do feel comfortable around him, but the passion is still there--Oh, don't make that face at me, young lady! How do you think you came into existence, if not through passion?"...

Hermione felt torn. She cared for Ron; she even thought she loved him...but she didn't feel the same spark of passion for him that she felt for Russel. Ron was her friend, and her mother had added that friends made the best lifelong partners, and he certainly didn't feel like a brother to her, as Harry did. But Russel made her heart pound in her chest, made her body vibrate like a tightly wound and plucked string. Do I feel lust for him, or something more? Is he a high-heeled slipper, or is he a low-heeled flat? ...I cannot believe I'm comparing my love-life to shoes.

Love-life. There was the phrase for it. She had a love-life. Hermione acknowledged the fact that she was now in a new phase of her life: she was old enough to have lovers, if she wanted. But all I know is, I don't feel ready for such a big choice! I only just started dating Ron. Her gaze sought the tall redhead through the crowd of onlookers, and she heard his voice competing with Yorsen's over the scraping of the enchanted stone chess pieces. She could see herself living comfortably with him. He didn't have her passion for book-learning, and she didn't have his passion for Quidditch; still, they were friends enough to put up with each others quirks.

Hermione tried picturing herself ten years from now, if she ended up marrying Ron. Assuming, of course, that they won the war and both of them lived...she could see herself with a couple of curly-haired children, some redheaded, some light brown. Comfortably married. Not rich, but not poor, either; like her own mum, she'd be a working mum, once the children were old enough for daycare, or primary school. She didn't know what jobs either of them would have, but it would be a good marriage.

Turning her attention to the problem of Russel, she tried to picture herself married to him...and couldn't imagine it. He was a spy. The likelihood of his living through the end of the war was less than her and Ron's chances, and the two of them were almost as severely targeted as Harry was. And she didn't know what she had in common with Russel, other than the intrigues of war. She had more in common with Draco Malfoy, almost! And there was that diminished but lingering fear, that Russel was a double-agent playing her for all he was worth.

Right now, if Russel/Rorik was a shoe, he was a strappy four-inch heel. Sexy to wear for short periods of time, but a pain in the foot for contemplating a lifetime's wear. She might not have a grand passion for Ron, but she did care for him more than she cared for Russel.

...So why do I feel disappointed with my decision? she found herself asking silently, as she worked her way into the crowd around the chess-board. Squeezing past two portly wizards, she managed to reach the edge of the board in time to watch Ron take one of Yorsen's rooks. Puzzling it through, Hermione came to a conclusion. Because I'm not ready, that's why. I'm just not ready to make a life-altering decision about who I'm supposed to...no, who I'm going to spend the rest of my life. I want it to be my decision. When I'm ready for it. And when the man in question is ready for it, too, she allowed, watching Yorsen retaliate with an attack on one of Ron's pawns.

Ron studied the new patterns as the pieces scraped their way into position, the pawn dragging itself off the board after Yorsen's bishop whacked the other piece with its stone crook, knocking it over. He certainly looked like an adult, handsome in his navy suit, confidently poised as he calculated his options. He wasn't a freckled boy puzzling over his Transfiguration homework, anymore.

Glancing at the hovering slate someone had conjured, she watched an enchanted stick of chalk marking another tally on the board, the moment Ron made his move. Thirty rounds. Thirty-one. She knew enough about chess to see that Yorsen had captured two more pieces than Ron, yes, but Ron had managed to capture some powerful pieces, whereas more of Ron's losses had been in pawns. Thirty-two...thirty-five... Ron castled, exchanging a rook with his king, moving it into a protected position away from a check by Yorsen's queen. She wanted to hug him, but refrained. Yorsen retreated his queen, blond brow furrowed in anger.

He picked the wrong square to retreat to, missing the position of Ron's knight. Ron captured his opponent's queen. He lost his knight in the very next round, but even Hermione knew the queen was more versatile and therefore more powerful than a knight. The witch at Yorsen's side touched his elbow, murmuring something, but was brusquely shaken off and given a curt, "Don't distract me right now!"

Glad she hadn't touched Ron, hadn't risked his concentration, Hermione watched as the tally board crept into the forties. Both players were moving more cautiously now, though with no less speed as they each took less than the allotted fifteen seconds to make up their minds. Forty-eight...forty-nine... Ron made his fiftieth move, and though he lost his remaining bishop, it made Hermione jiggle in place, hands clasping as she strove to not squeal in happiness. Fifty rounds was nothing to sneeze at, when playing against a chess master of Yorsen's calibre! The crowd in the atrium was now stiflingly hot, as the watching wizards and witches shouted out that the freckled youth had met his goal, and was still holding his own. More bodies tried to crowd into the garden, and a series of running commentaries to those in the back was instigated as fifty quickly became fifty-three...fifty-seven...sixty rounds...

Ron lost his queen, at sixty-two. That leveled the game a bit more, and not in his favour. By sixty-seven, Ron was in a bind that even Hermione could see. He managed to eke it out a few more rounds...to seventy, seventy-one...seventy-two... Round seventy-three.

"Check...'mate'," Yorsen pronounced, giving Ron a tight smile.

Ron nodded, and crossed to the midpoint of the board to shake the Danish wizard's hand, but his attention was still on the board.

"Your mistake was in moving your bishop to Queen's five," Jens Yorsen informed him archly as soon as their hands parted. Most of the crowd broke up and drifted away, but Hermione and Harry moved onto the board, joining the two of them. "After that, you couldn't recover."

Ron shook his head. "No...actually, I made the mistake before that, when I lost my first knight a few rounds earlier. I shouldn't have sacrificed him. I should've gone with the bishop, then; I would've only been on shaky ground for four or five rounds after."

Yorsen's brows rose. "...Indeed? How long have you been playing chess?"

Ron shrugged. "Since I was five."

"Professional lessons?"

"No, my dad taught me, and I'd just play with him or my brothers, and sometimes my sister. Then my schoolmates, when I got old enough."

"--Ronald, here," Professor Flitwick asserted, striding onto the board and clapping a hand on the lower part of Ron's back, "played the best game Hogwarts has ever seen, and he did it back in his very first year. And I believe you still owe him his hundred-and-twelve Galleons?"

"You'll get it when the goblins set up their booth, tomorrow," Yorsen told Ron. "I'll order the transfer to your account then."

Ron winced, at that. "I, er, don't have an account. Not my own, at least, not yet."

Hermione winced, too. In an instant, he'd gone from competent chess player to wet-behind-the-ears teenager, with that confession. Yorsen eyed him askance. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen. Why d'you ask?"

The older wizard arched a brow, though more in a puzzled than skeptical manner. "Seventeen, and you don't have any money of your own? How would you have paid me, had you lost?"

"He has a lot of friends," Hermione stated, threading her fingers through Ron's.

"A lot of friends who have faith in him," Harry added.

Filius Flitwick add his squeaky two-Knuts' worth. "And I only place sucker's bets!"

"Professor!" Ron protested. "That remark was uncalled-for. Would you please apologize to him? He's a really good player!"

Yorsen's face twisted, then a rusty-sounding laugh escaped him. "Good one, Flitwick! For that...I will add five hundred to the pot. If you'll consider possibly going pro, Weasley," the Dane added, making Ron's face colour at the compliment. "It'll mean playing against Muggles, but as much as any wizard would hate to admit it, the best players are to be found in the Muggle realm. Even if their pieces don't move on their own."

"Uh...I'll consider it, but I kinda have other plans, for the moment," Ron managed, as his fingers tightened around Hermione's. Six hundred and twelve Galleons was a small fortune! And yet...he made her proud by adding, "You don't have to give me that much. The bet was only for a hundred and twelve."

"I regularly compete for purses of five hundred, young man," Yorsen informed him. "You've reminded me to not underestimate my opponent. Even if he doesn't look threatening. Consider it your contribution to teaching me an expensive lesson in humility--I insist. You can make it up to me by engaging me in a chess-game over breakfast, tomorrow. Smaller-scale, of course. The only other players of your calibre or higher who are here this weekend are too old to like getting up that early."

"I'll be up that early," Ron promised, squeezing Hermione's hand again. This time in happiness. She knew he loved Quidditch, but chess was his game; he had the love, the talent, and the confidence for it.

"Good. Oh, Rob...?"

"Ron."

"Right. Ron Weasley, Miss Bianca LaMenge. Bianca, Mr. Weasley," the Danish wizard introduced his date.

"Right--Hermione Granger, Jens Yorsen," Ron introduced them.

"A pleasure. Shall we dance?" Yorsen asked Hermione.

"Er...alright," she agreed, and found herself led back into the ballroom, while Ron fumbled an offer to dance to Yorsen's date.

"I don't suppose I can pry more information out of you about Mr. Weasley's chess-skills?" Yorsen asked her as he led her into a foxtrot on the dance-floor.

"Actually, I'm not very good at chess myself," Hermione apologized, "so any analysis I gave you would be from a rank amateur's perspective."

"Pity. He certainly has tastes beyond the rank amateur in lovely young witches."

Hermione blushed. What was it with wizards in their thirties who wanted to flirt with her whilst dancing, anyway? Indeed, a few turns later, she spotted Rorik Fergusson dancing with a witch of about his own age. A witch who glared at Hermione over the shoulder of the kilt-wearing wizard. The eyes were a pretty shade of aquamarine, but she'd seen that look in eyes of a dirty grey. Hermione shivered and wondered warily if Bellatrix Lestrange was one of the other two 'guests' disguised among the crowd.

She hoped not; that particular witch was psychotic, and it would be the equivalent of letting a rabid dog charge into a flock of chickens, if her leash slipped for even a second or two from the grip of whoever was supposed to be holding her leash.

Ron claimed her for the next dance. She praised him for his performance in the atrium, and listened as much as she could marshal her sometimes wandering attention to his almost blow-by-blow analysis of the chess game. Not her cuppa, and somewhat less exciting than a blow-by-blow of Quidditch, but she did want to support him in his interests. After that, she danced with Harry, and found herself in a conversation discussing how they'd share out each other's inheritances. Mostly, it was discussing how she'd inherit 12 Grimmauld Place--and Kreacher, unfortunately--if anything should happen to Harry.

It wasn't a happy prospect to contemplate, but they were going up against Voldemort, who was determined to kill the Boy Who Had Lived And Thereby Mocked The Dark Lord By It. For her part, Hermione was determined to get Harry over to her parents' place, so that they'd know just how serious a wizarding blood-binding ritual was, and that they'd literally be gaining a son by it, through his burgeoning connection to her. But she knew her parents cared for Harry already, at least; they cared for Ron, too, but it was Harry who'd be related to them, soon.

It was that which prompted her to seek out Professor Flitwick, once her dance with Harry finished. The diminutive instructor was chatting with a group of colleagues, discussing the merits of ash versus willow in suppleness. She didn't want to interrupt, but Hermione did want to discuss the possibility of a blood-binding ritual with him.

"Er...sir," she interjected quickly but politely into a brief break in the conversation. "I don't mean to drag you away from your friends, but...you danced so well, earlier, I was wondering if you'd favour me with another turn upon the floor?"

"What? Oh! Oh, how flattering!" Filius squeaked, flustered. "Of course, how could I refuse such a charming young witch?"

"Filius, you old dog," one of the more grey-bearded wizards in the circle teased. "What have you got to attract the ladies that we haven't got?"

Hermione, mindful of Flitwick's admonishment to build him up in the presence of his contemporaries in the wand-collection circuit, smiled smugly as she replied for him. "A brilliant mind, a charming personality, an incredible competency in his chosen field...and a graceful way of dancing that makes me feel as if I'm the one floating in midair," Hermione quipped as Filius enchanted himself up to match head-levels with her. "Now, if you can match all of that, and dance like a man a third your age as Filius Flitwick can, see me later on the dance-floor. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy my time with the most competent dancer here."

"I don't know," one of the grey-haired witches tittered as Hermione hooked her fingers around her former Charms Professor's elbow and headed for the dance floor. "I think that kilted fellow she was dancing with earlier would be a nice catch to twirl about..."

Blushing, Hermione took up a stance for a foxtrot with her partner, and let him lead her around the floor. "Forgive me for interrupting you, Professor. And for, erm, fluffing up your reputation so much. You are a good dancer, though."

"Nonsense! I'll be quite the stud tonight, among the silver-haired set," he chuckled. "But somehow I get the feeling you wanted to have a private conversation with me. Are my instincts correct?"

"They're quite correct, sir."

"If this is about that recently-acquired wand, I won't talk about it until my demonstration, tomorrow, and neither will you, since that would spoil the surprise--"

"No, actually, it's about something Charms-related," Hermione corrected.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Harry and I...well, we've agreed we love each other very much as brother-and-sister. We were therefore wondering if you knew a blood-binding spell to actually make us brother-and-sister, via magic."

"Oh! Well, yes, I do. That's the Brothers-By-Blood rite," he said. "I haven't seen that one performed in, oh, a good thirty...thirty-seven years, if I remember aright."

"Can you help us do it?" she asked him, eager to have the ritual performed. "And soon? Harry and I, we don't want to go on much further without having each other officially as a sibling."

"Well, all the ritual requires is a golden blade, at least two witnesses who aren't related by blood or marriage to the two being blood-joined, and a third someone not related to either, to perform the spell. Let's see...I could perform the spell, Ronald Weasley could be one of the witnesses, and all we'd need is a third unrelated party--actually, we could make the whole thing public right here and how!"

He started to pull out of her arms, since they were near the edge of the dance floor. Hermione, eyes widening, yanked him back into her arms. "Professor!" she hissed. "Try to think about what you were just about to do! If you tell everyone here that Harry and I are to become blood-bound siblings, it'll get back to V...to the Dark Lord, and they'll try all the harder to hurt the two of us, or tear us apart!"

"Oh. Right. I hadn't thought about that angle," Flitwick muttered. His gaze slid around the room as they continued to dance, until it alighted on a specific knot of fellows. "I have it! We'll ask Jens Yorsen. He's not related to any of us, and he's taken to young Weasley as an up-and-coming chess protege, if I'm not mistaken. He'd be perfect. And he has a reputation for being discreet. Arrogant near a chess board, but discreet in other areas. Erm...you are dating young Mr. Weasley, aren't you?"

She blushed. "Yes. It's...it's not serious, yet, but it's not exactly casual."

"Ah. Young love." As if that summed it all up, he danced her over to the edge of the floor nearest where Ron and Yorsen were talking. Bowing to her, Filius set her free, admonishing her, "Now, go find Harry, and meet us in the parlour of our suite. The war makes life itself too uncertain to put off something as serious as this, if you're both truly determined to go through with it."

"We are, sir. We'll be there," she promised him.

...

"...ex sanguifilium!"

Fire seared through the wounds in their palms. Hermione and Harry both gasped from the pain, but their fingers tightened bravely until the burning of the magic eased and faded. Half-spell, half-ritual, the ancient rite concluded itself with a rippling tingle that swept over and through Hermione's body, ruffling her hair and her clothes, the same as it ruffled Harry's.

"So Be It," Filius intoned in as sonorous tones as his squeaky voice could manage.

"So Mote It Be," Ron and Jens recited, following their place in the ritual as they stood to either side of the pair. "--Witnessed!"

Harry looked into Hermione's eyes, grinning. From the ache in her cheeks, she was grinning right back at him. Releasing each other's hands, they flung their arms around each other, embracing as brother and sister. Harry then picked Hermione up, making her squeak in surprise at being twirled around. He wasn't nearly as tall as Ron, and he'd never bulk up with muscles, but there was a surprising amount of strength hidden in his lean frame. Laughing, she regained her feet, then hefted him up and managed to spin him almost all the way around before having to set him down, out of breath and unable to lift his own mass for nearly as long. He laughed and ruffled her hair, rough-housing with her. She tickled him in the ribs, then kissed him on the cheek and hugged him again.

"My own family," Harry murmured, tucking her head against his shoulder. "My very own sister." He looked at the crescent-shaped scar on his palm, then at the matching one on hers. They'd carry those scars to the end of their lives, as proof of what they'd done.

"Hey," Ron offered, smiling at them. "At least you didn't have to grow up with your sister. They're very pouty and impossible between the ages of three and fifteen. Between three and thirty, come to think of it!"

"Oh! I should tell Ginny what you just said!" Hermione mock-scolded.

Jens Yorsen offered his hand to her. "Congratulations on adding to your family."

"Thanks," she smiled, releasing Harry. It did make her think though; she turned to Harry, waited until he'd shaken hands with the chess-master, waited a little bit more for Yorsen to leave, then offered, "...That does remind me: we'll need to introduce you to your new mum and dad, as soon as we can."

"Mum and dad?" Harry asked.

"Of course!" Filius interjected as Harry and Ron both gave her blank looks. "When you and Hermione became brother and sister, you not only accepted her as your blood-relative, but all of her blood-relatives as well! You're now officially related to Mr. and Mrs. Granger."

"Mum and Dad already like you," Hermione promised Harry. "They've only met you a few times at most, but I've told them lots about you, and they do care for you. I think they'll adapt to the idea of having a son--and not just a son-in-law--fairly quickly, once they get past the shock of wizarding ways."

"Oy!" Ron interjected, his freckled nose wrinkling. "I just realized--you're not only related to him, 'Mione...you're now related to the Dursleys!"

"--Eww!" The reaction escaped her before she could help it. She'd heard too many horror-stories about Harry's so-called childhood home. "I'm now...? To Dudley?"

"Worse. To Uncle Vernon. Though thankfully he's only related by marriage," Harry pointed out fairly.

"Thank god for that!" she muttered. "Right. Well, we'll just have to disown them, and stick to my folks."

"It's only fair, since they've already disowned me," Harry admitted with a shrug. "And Aunt Petunia would hate you; I just know it. You're smart, pretty, and a smashingly good witch. Kind of like my mum was, I think."

"Yes. In fact, I do believe Miss Granger has quite a lot in common with your late mother, Lily Evans," Flitwick offered. It was a reminder that he'd taught long enough at Hogwarts to have known that generation, back when it had passed through the school. "Both young ladies were smart, and quite adept in Charms...though Hermione has a real knack for improvising new Charms, quite unlike anything I've ever seen... I think your parents would have approved of taking her on as a daughter, Harry. A good choice, all around."

"Thank you, sir," the younger wizard smiled.

"Well, I'm feeling rather tired. All that dancing lighter-than-air, I suppose," Filius winked in Hermione's direction. "Remember to observe the proprieties and be gentlemen, boys, where Miss Granger's reputation is concerned. Goodnight--and don't forget that chess-match tomorrow morning, Ronald!"

A chorus of "goodnights" followed the professor as he retreated through the boys' bedroom to his modified dressing chamber. Ron stared at Hermione. She stared back, blushing. Harry looked at both of them, and sighed.

"Okay, I'm going to go to bed, too. You two can stay up and snog, if you like...but if you do anything to my sister that she doesn't like, I'll have to thrash you, mate," Harry warned his best friend.

"Actually...I'm a bit knackered, myself," Hermione confessed, wrinkling her nose ruefully. Stepping close, she kissed Harry on the cheek, then shifted and kissed Ron on the lips. Moving back, she gave the latter wizard a regretful look. "I think I'll turn in, too. All that dancing did me in as well. I'll see you both tomorrow morning...and keep your eyes open. I wouldn't be surprised if there weren't followers of You-Know-Who lurking in disguise as guests."

"Yeah, like that Ferguson fellow, the one in the kilt," Ron muttered. "I didn't like him!"

"You didn't like the fact that he was flirting with me, Ron," Hermione corrected. "But I won't deny he could be a Death Eater in disguise, given that he came with Mr. Ollivander, and Mr. Ollivander's release from wherever he'd been up until now was too coincidentally timed with this exhibition, and the resurfacing of that wand...but that's a speculation for tomorrow, I think. I'm going to bed, now." And before she could let herself react to the irony in that statement, she nodded to them both, heading for her bedroom door. "Goodnight!"

Almost expecting Ron to follow her anyway, Hermione adjusted the wards on her door long enough to let herself through, and reset them behind her. Sagging briefly against the door, she rested there for a moment, then stooped and slipped off her navy flats. The plush pile of the misty blue carpeting felt good against her nylon-clad feet. Shuffling over to the bed, she sank onto the coverlet, squirming to avoid the lump digging into her thigh. A reflexive check of her bracelet showed it was still fully charged, as she started to pat through her skirts to find the problem.

Her cleavage warmed. Extracting the ring, she found it smooth and featureless. Russel was requesting written communication between them. Sighing, Hermione used her wand to summon pen and paper, extracting the box of chocolates from her skirt, the source of her discomfort. Thumb on ring and ring on tablet, she read the words spilling out from its golden edge.

Do you forgive me?

Yes, she wrote back. She wasn't sure how honest she should be with him; she was still dating Ron, and Russel wasn't exactly a good dating prospect, even if she should end her relationship with Ron right now. You were a bit forward, but I suppose that is your style. However, you were a bit too forward for such a public location. What else was I to do? There's a number of people here who know or guess or have realized that I'm with Ronald Weasley. How would it make me look, if I were to date one fellow, yet let another one be so physically familiar with me, without any sign of protest?

...Oh. Yes, I'd forgotten that aspect. Wasn't there an article that came out a few years ago, during the Triwizard Tournament, about you stringing Harry and that Durmstrang fellow along at the same time, like some wanton tramp?

I WAS NOT A TRAMP! I certainly WASN'T dating Harry! she scribbled back. He's like a brother to me!

My apologies; again, I have offended, and I didn't mean to. I didn't believe you were doing that, at the time; I was just relating what was in the article. But...what do you mean by stating that Harry is your brother? You can't actually be his sister; you're not related to each other.

Hermione stared at the page, flustered. He couldn't possibly have guessed that. Not unless Jens Yorsen was a Death Eater in disguise. That wasn't highly likely, however; Yorsen was too well-known, and too good a chess-player. Somehow she didn't think Voldemort had all that many high-quality chess masters on his side. And she trusted Professor Flitwick to have been extremely discreet in asking Yorsen to come be their second witness, just now.

Which meant that the ring had taken her statement 'like a brother' as a shading of truth that was too close to a lie, since Harry was her brother, now; he wasn't merely 'just like' one...and it had taken that 'lie' and judged that it needed to be corrected to the truth. The rings really did force them to write truthfully to each other...

...Jane?

Someone knocked on her door. Startled, Hermione scratched a line across the page with her pen, instead of making a reply.

"Hermione?"

Ron's voice came through the door, slightly muffled by the baroque-carved panel.

I have to go! Yanking the ring from the tablet, she jammed it down her cleavage and checked the paper. Her words faded, then vanished in a flash of fire. Satisfied, she hurried to the door, opening it. "Yes, Ron?"

He caught her jaw-line in his hands, kissing her and stepping into her bedroom in a single, smooth move. It was a good kiss, warm and wet and with plenty of tongue, but without clicking teeth, or making her feel as if he was trying to probe her tonsils. His body jerked a little as he kicked the door shut, then he tipped her head just a little more, kissing her more firmly. Hand slipping down to her breast, he cupped it, then massaged it gently.

Even as she inhaled a startled breath at the intimate touch, Hermione couldn't help but think, So he can learn from my nagging...

It wasn't until her knees bumped against the edge of the bed that she realized he'd backed her across the bedroom. That brought her attention back to her surroundings with a snap of her eyes as they opened. It wasn't the only thing he was doing; his fingers had found the zipper at the back of her gown. Without her noticing, he'd managed to draw it several inches down.

He's undressing me! Panic gripped her. I'm not ready for this! Her hands, which had been gripping and massaging his shoulders, switched quickly to pushing. He pulled back, releasing her kiss-swollen lips, but their new position made the front of her gown start to drop. Hermione slapped her left hand to her breasts, quickly holding it in place over her strapless bra.

"Why don't I help you with that?" Ron asked her, shifting the hand that had been massaging her spine back down to the pull-tab of her zipper. To pull it down, she realized, not pull it up.

"Ron--I'm not ready for this!" Hermione reminded him urgently.

His hand stilled, his eyes widening slightly. "But...it's been a couple weeks! Haven't you had time to think about it?"

"Yes, and I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not ready for this next step!"

Frustration furrowed his brow. He released her, stepping back. Hands delved into his bright auburn hair, tugging it back from his face. "You're not ready. You're not ready! When will you be ready?"

"I don't know!" she shot back, equally frustrated.

"Dammit, Hermione!" he swore, tugging on his hair again. "Every time I'm with you, all I can think of is kissing you, and when I'm kissing you, and you're so hot and seemingly willing in my arms--it's frustrating the hell out of me! I love you, Hermione! If you loved me, you wouldn't do this to me!"

"If you l--" Hermione blinked, cutting herself off with an effort that would only have stung more if she'd actually, physically bitten her tongue. Breathing hard, lips pressed tightly together, she mastered her initial response, instead stating bitingly, "If you respected me, you'd accept the fact that, when I say I'm not ready for sex, I am not ready! It has nothing to do with love, or any lack thereof!--And how dare you play that particular card? How dare you say that if I loved you, I'd tumble into the nearest bed with you?" she accused him, furious that he had done so. "Guys only say that to girls who they're trying to manipulate emotionally! I'm not trying to do anything to you, Ronald! I'm trying to tell you that, while I like kissing and cuddling with you, I'm just not bloody ready for sex, yet!"

"I'm not trying to manipulate you! I'm trying to say..." Breaking off in frustration, Ron tugged on his hair again, and growled, "I'm saying that I'm bloody tired of having to wank myself every time I think of you!"

Heat flooded her skin. An equal amount of embarrassed colour filled in around the freckles dotting his own hide. They stared at each other. Ron slid his hands out of his hair, covering his face.

"...Merlin! Please tell me I did not just say that?"

"You did," Hermione muttered, flustered by the heated confession. It was compounded by her own, secret guilt; she'd frigged herself more than once in the past few months...but more to thoughts of what Russel and she had discussed in their more titillating missives, than to thoughts of the youngest male Weasley. She did her best to set those thoughts aside, addressing his current concerns. "But...I can understand the sentiment, Ron. And the frustration.

"I don't think I'm being a tease; I'm not deliberately doing anything sexy or anything," she pointed out. "And I can't help how you feel about me, nor how your body reacts, nor...nor its needs. All I do know is that I just don't feel ready to go all the way, yet. I also don't like feeling forced into a situation I'm not ready to handle."

"I'm not trying to force you!" he protested. At the arch of her brow, he flushed a little, amending, "...Okay, so I'm a little too eager to get into your knickers. But I don't want to force you, Hermione. I'm not that kind of bloke. I just...I'm frustrated, and, erm...wanking does get a little old after a while."

She blushed but smiled shyly. "It's very flattering to know I, um, inspire you so much. And I think I'm getting closer to wanting to go all the way, but...not just yet. I'm asking you to be patient with me, Ron. Can you do that? Please?"

She touched his arm with her right hand, since the left one was still holding up the bodice of her gown. He gave her a look that was a mixture of frustration, reluctance, compliance, and quite possibly real love. It made her think of her imagining them together, ten years from now. It was definitely easier to imagine a future with Ron than a future with Russel.

A sigh escaped him, and he nodded. "I'll do that. Just...don't take forever, okay?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "Wanking--"

"--Gets old, yes, I know," she finished for him, turning the awkward confession into a private joke between them. He sighed again, this time not quite so heavily, and pulled her into an embrace. Hermione stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into him when all he did was hold her. A few moments later, she felt his fingers on her back, but they lingered only long enough to pull up the zip of her gown. It was nice to know his mother had raised a gentleman, however much a frustrated one.

Setting her at arms-length, he gave her a lopsided smile. "I'd better go, then. I won't rush you, but my hormones might try to vote otherwise." Leaning in for a moment, he kissed her, a chaste touch of their lips, then released her and headed for the door. "I'll see you in the morning...and probably in my dreams. You, um, won't mind if I ask your dream-self to get a little more adventurous, will you?"

Her heart melted with the humor of it. "Let her get as 'frisky' as she likes, Ron. One day I will be, too."

"Right. Just don't take forever." Giving her one last look over his shoulder, he opened the door and stepped through.

After the door clicked shut, Hermione sagged onto the edge of the bed, feeling tired. Drained, emotionally. And her feet still hurt from all the dancing she'd done. Fishing her wand out of her pocket, she undid the zipper all the way and slithered out of the dress. Stripping, she donned her pyjamas, wincing a little at how plain they seemed compared to her evening gown, yet glad they were plain blue striped cotton and utterly un-sexy. Picking up her toiletry kit, she padded out of her room to head to the communal bath to brush her teeth and ready herself for bed.

She almost ran into Ron as he stepped out of the little room. They jerked back from each other awkwardly, then he managed a smile, sweeping one hand gallantly towards the lavatory. "All yours..."

"Thanks. Sweet dreams," she added daringly, wondering if Ron would turn out to have a tiny bit of maribu on the toe-strap of his proverbial fuzzy slipper.

He blushed, but retorted, "Feel free to let my own dream-self get as frisky as you like."

Flustered but smiling, Hermione ducked into the bathroom.

...

Hands caught her, yanking her through a doorway as she passed it on her way down to breakfast. Startled, heart pounding, Hermione drew in a breath to scream, and found herself turned around and slammed against the hastily shut door, a hand pressed over her mouth. A lean, hard body pressed hers firmly to the carved wood, and the other tanned hand had her wand-arm pinned by the wrist, preventing her from hexing her kilt-clad captor. Realizing belatedly that it was Russel, a.k.a. Rorik Ferguson, Hermione shakily let out her startled lungful of air through her nostrils.

Holding her tawny gaze with his pewter grey one, he slowly eased the pressure of his hand. Removing it, he drew in a breath to speak, but his gaze dropped to her mouth, then to either side. A lick of his lips, and he murmured something else instead. An apology, rather than whatever he'd meant to say.

"...I've bruised you. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. I just didn't want you screaming and rousing half the wing to come rushing to your rescue."

Feeling her heart-rate ease, Hermione licked her own lips reflexively. "It's okay--"

His gaze, riveted on her mouth, darkened. Without warning, he kissed her. Catching the startled release of her breath, he slanted his lips against hers, sucking, then licking. Not with a hard, uncomfortable pressure, but with a muscle-tight restraint she could feel in the tension of his body, still pinning hers to the door. Yet his mouth was soft, succulent, and remarkably coaxing.

Not quite sure when the transition was made, Hermione found herself returning his tutoring nips with ones of her own. Nor did she know when he stopped gripping her wand-hand, though she was acutely aware of the feel of his hand cupping her breast through her dark purple shirt. The feel of his own shirt--white, today--clenched in her fingers let her know she was tugging him closer as her heart-rate sped up again. This was what was missing from her moments with Ron. Breath-stealing passion.

He left her mouth, making it feel abandoned, though her chin and her jaw and the line of her throat rejoiced at having garnered his attention. Her whole body tensed, breasts and thighs aching, her soft curves pressing into his harder angles. Uncurling her fingers, she slid her palms to his shoulders, intending to push him away. Somehow they ended up tangling in his chest-length hair instead. She did manage to tug his mouth away from her collarbone, only to find herself dragging him back into range for another hot kiss.

It felt dangerously liberating, being aggressive. Hermione wasn't quite sure why she could balk and shy in Ron's arms at the thought of leaping into her sexuality, yet fling herself over the cliff's edge with this man, this spy...this potential liar. Oh, god, she thought, don't tell me I'm in lust with the bad-boy image...

A brief thought of how much she disliked Draco Malfoy banished that possibility. And she'd never liked Sirius in that sort of way, either; he had certainly been a bad-boy poster child while he lived, but she'd found him to be reckless and arrogant. No, Russel was different. Russel was delicious...Russel was unbuttoning her blouse and licking his way down her throat once again, this time not stopping until he was nuzzling and kissing the curve of her breast above the satin edge of her bra.

The scrape of his fingernail over the tight-aching peak of her nipple made her cry out. He twitched, freezing in place. A heartbeat later, he jerked back from her, hands going to his hair, then sliding down his chest. He stared at her, eyes wide and a little wild. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry! I didn't mean... You could tempt the devil himself, with all that passion. Merlin knows I'm probably his second cousin... Are you alright?"

Flushed, Hermione had clutched her blouse together. Her nipple still ached from his touch. Both of them, actually Fumbling the buttons back into their holes, she focused on trying not to blush any further. "I'll...I'll be alright. Please, don't do that again. I'm still dating Ron, and I don't like the way how you make me feel, when he's supposed to be making me feel that way."

He stepped back close to her, and lifted her chin with the edge of his finger. "Don't ever be ashamed of your passion, Jane. For what it's worth...I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable. But you should be smart enough to realize that if I can tempt you, you're not meant to be with him."

Hermione pulled her chin away, moving out from between him and the door. "That doesn't mean I'm meant for you. I can see myself living with Ron and raising a family together, ten years from now. I can't see anything when I think of you!"

Silence met her cold words. She turned to find him staring at her, his expression shuttered. Opening her mouth to apologize, she found herself cut off. "--Don't bother, Jane. I realize I cannot offer you anything at this point in time. I am a spy, and my life is forfeit if I am uncovered by either side, before the end."

His own words were chilly, but their brittleness seemed directed more at himself than at her, as his gaze slid away. It wasn't much, and it was both lame and late, but she had to offer it anyway. "I'm sorry."

A slow, deep breath, and he moved away from the subject, looking at her once again. "I wanted to ask you last night what you meant by Harry being your brother. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie to me."

"...I'd rather not talk about that," Hermione hedged.

He closed the distance between them, looming over her. She knew he was tall, but this was the first time he'd tried to intimidate her a little by it. Uncomfortable under the pinning weight of his stare, she found herself studying his raven-carved amulet again. He lifted her chin, forcing her to look back up at him. "I need to know, if I'm to do damage-control, when word of this gets out. How did you manage it? He has no brothers for you to marry, but words sent through the rings cannot lie, so you must have managed it somehow. Jane--the moment your enemies find out about this development, you'll be an even greater target than before. I need to know, in case I need to protect you somehow! You're my only link to the right side in this war!"

The rings didn't permit lies. Hermione recalled his words, sent through the ring, that he was on her side. On Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's side. Relenting, allowing herself to believe in the wizard touching her, she gave him the truth. "Harry and I performed the Brothers-by-Blood ritual, last night. We're now blood-related by magic, as brother and sister. And before you say anything more about this being a dangerous weakness, I think it's also a strength. Harry now has family that he actually likes, and who likes him back.

"That's worth more than an increased threat to myself. I'm already too talented, too intelligent, too Muggle-born, and too close to Harry. One more layer on top of all of that won't make my fate at the hands of Voldemort's cronies any worse," she pointed out.

He flinched, covering his forearm quickly. "Don't say that name!"

"Why ever not?" Hermione demanded as he stepped back. "Why shouldn't I say it? It's just a name!"

"Because there are rumors that, if you say it in the presence of a Dark Mark, he can hear it being spoken!" Russel hissed at her. "And I'd rather not test that theory!"

"It's just a mark!" she scoffed.

"It's a mark with a lot of very powerful magic tied into it!" the dark blond wizard retorted. "I've seen him do things you cannot imagine. Powerful things. And heard rumors of far worse. I'd rather not risk the rumors of his Mark being somehow tied to him turning out to be true!"

"Alright! Alright," she repeated, holding out her hands as she sought to calm him down. "I won't say that name again, in your presence."

"...Thank you." He rubbed his forearm again, then shook his head. "I need to go. This conversation is over."

"I'm sorry," she offered.

He shook his head. "It's not your fault. I'll see you later."

Nodding, she watched him flick his wand at the door, dissolving the wards that must have been pre-laid and triggered when he'd shut the door. Now he opened it a crack, checking the corridor. It must have been clear, for he stepped through and shut the panel behind himself, leaving her alone in the room. Hermione waited a couple minutes, then left herself, in case anyone was watching.

It also gave her a few minutes to compose herself and smooth her blouse into her dress-slacks, so that she didn't look rumpled from their brief but torrid bout of snogging.